The Forge of Heaven
I. The hammer fell. Once. Twice. Three times. Each strike sent sparks dancing across the damp walls of the workshop like angry fireflies, and Thomas Blackwood felt the vibration travel up his arms and settle somewhere behind his ribs, where his heart used to be before the mines took it. He was twenty-four and already moved like a man of fifty. His hands were maps of scar tissue and callus, each...
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